I’m in a pub in Woolloomooloo, in Sydney. In Australia. It’s probably a nineteenth century building, that’s been a working class pub, mainly for blokes, for most of the last hundred years. Now there’s a theatre attached and they’re doing King Lear tonight. So it’s a luvvies’ pub as well. I’ve worked on building sites and factories, but I’m more of a luvvie myself these days. Anyway, I came to see Lear.

There are puppies pissing on the carpet. That’s not going to harm the carpet much. I guess that from a puppy point of view the place already smells like a midden, and so you should add you own specific aromas to the rich and complex brew the humans have built up over the generations.

There are pretty girls, gaga-ing at the puppies. The pups are sitting up and begging.

They don’t want anything in particular but they like the attention, so they’re hind-legging with their front paws together.

I’ve been travelling and working. This is the first time I’ve been on-line, in my own time and on my own computer, in nearly a week. The Probation Officer story has got up to the confrontation I had to have eventually with the local cops, about Ana, and their dealings with her father. I tell that part of the story probably tomorrow or the next day. I’ll be on my way back home by then.

I’m not afraid of submissives. That may seem comically obvious, if you think submissive men or women are intrinsically harmless, simply because they’re submissive. But a submissive woman can hurt me a lot if I care for her and she doesn’t want what I can give her. A submissive woman I love can break my heart. Literally. (I mean literally.)

But I can hurt a submissive who puts herself under my domination. I can give her physical pain. I can give her psychological pain, too. I can make her sorry, or frightened, or – for a time – alone and helpless.

That’s why submissives come to me (when they do), or to some other dom. That’s what they want.

Submissives should be afraid of me, or of any dom. We can hurt them, and that’s something to be feared. But they don’t feel that fear, or they move past it. That ability to trust, to place oneself in someone else’s hands, is awe-inspiring. It is extraordinary. I admire it. There is immense courage there.

If someone bruised me deliberately, I’d expect that I’d have bruised them too. Since I don’t enjoy fighting, let alone getting hurt, I’d be angry both about getting hit and being put to the necessity of punching someone. I’ve had only about four physical fights in my life, and I’m just as annoyed at being pushed into the ones I “won” as the ones I lost.

There are movies in which two guys have a fist fight and then become best friends, but that could never be me. I just get pissed off that I’ve been pushed into something scary and painful, where the best outcome, “winning”, is sour. Hit me and you make an enemy.

But when a submissive woman takes a spanking or a flogging from me, I don’t think I’ve ever encountered hard feelings. Sorrow, maybe, if I’ve given a punishment, but the most common feeling I’ve had fed back to me when I let her up, and in the morning after, is pleasure, either calm and satisfied, or giddy and cheerful like Sa’afia.

Um… I think I was going to say something more complicated than this. Anyway, it’s amazingly fortunate that there are both dominants and submissives, since we need each other.

I’m trying to keep the Probation Officer story as true and honest as I can manage. I’ve made various changes, particularly to ensure that even someone who knows me will find it hard to identify or locate Ana, Sa’afia or Svitlana. It helps that I’m not a probation officer any more, and that I’m not living in that part of the world any more. I’ve tried to keep the emotional truth, and not to protect myself too much.

At the time I was still more diffident about bdsm than I am in the version I’ve told here. But I haven’t felt like writing about my self-doubt and the evasions I used to cover for desires that were sometimes a little darker than I was comfortable with. Even striping Sa’afia’s ass with the rod seemed to me to be a bit dark, a shameful thing to be enjoying. You can take it that I spent more time worrying about sexual politics, about whether I’d shock those women and turn them off me, and so on, than I’ve written about here. I just haven’t gone on about it because it’s boring, it’s self-obsessed and it gets in the way of telling the story.

I’ve also noticed, re-reading this long story so far, that I haven’t made much of an issue about things I didn’t know then. For example, there’s very little in the way of discussion, in advance of any session, about practices that are good and practices to avoid because the submissive doesn’t want them. These days I’d formalise that part of the conversation more, but then I trusted and relied on the submissive woman to give me clues during a session if something was a turn-off, or too painful or scary.

Also, it hadn’t even occurred to me at the time how much a submissive can want to give of herself. I saw bdsm as very hot sex that resolved into loving pleasure. Of course, bdsm is that, but there were doors I hadn’t opened yet. So some questions about submission just never arose with me, though they certainly arose for Sa’afia’s and (SPOILER ALERT) for Ana. Svitlana not so much. Some of the time I wasn’t listening, or paying attention. But I haven’t given myself any anachronistic awareness of that.

There’s another observation, about the insouciant cheerfulness with which Sa’afia told me I’d left her with severe bruises across her arse and the backs of her thighs. I’ve reported that reaction accurately, but in some ways it’s strange, isn’t it?

My shoulder. Sa’afia was rocking me by my shoulder. It was daylight. I remembered this was a busy day. I grabbed my watch. I was due at work in twenty minutes. It couldn’t take less than half an hour to get there. I had a lot to do, including preparing for, and then having, the meeting with my boss and the cops. I said, “ahhhhh!”

Sa’afia was dressed. She had a little tray in her hand. The tray had a green surface and a sort of white picket fence around it. She was being cute. She’d brought a cup of tea with a lot of milk, and a sort of deep-fried cake. She said, “I know it’s late. I was going to suck you off. To wake you up. Because you’re my little man. But I didn’t have the heart to wake you. You were asleep.”

“Did you just say I’m your little man?”

“Yes. Because you are. My little warrior man. Are you going to beat me for that?”

“Hell yes. Ah, actually, hell yes. Whenever your mum’s not home. And maybe sometimes when she is. She must know you deserve it.”

“Drink your tea.”

I did. The bun, or cake thing, was good too. It seemed to be made of fat and sugar. “I’ve got to get going.”

I smacked her arse, about twenty times, until I was sure that she meant it when she said it hurt. Then I had the shower. She left for work while I was still getting dressed, so I locked up when I left.

I woke up. Sa’afia had rolled over so that she faced me, but she was a little further to her side of the bed. She wasn’t touching me. I needed to piss. I didn’t want to disturb her. I wondered if I could go back to sleep and piss when it was daylight. Then I stopped wondering: no.

So I tried to remember where the toilet was. And what was on the bedroom floor between the bed and the door. Once I’d closed the door behind me, I could at least turn a passage light on. If I could find the switch.

The change in my breathing, while I thought these things, stirred Sa’afia. She said, “Ah? Oh, falopa.” She said ‘falopa’ in the high, kind voice you use to entice a child, or a cat. She was pleased to find me in her bed. “Not morning, is it?”

I kissed her, and said, “Not morning. Bladder.”

Sa’afia said, “wha?” But she didn’t let go of the kiss. She scootched over to me so our bodies touched, and, while I reacted to her closeness, she put her right thigh on my hip. Her cunt, wet with me, and my cock, wet with her, were almost touching, and we knew it. The bladder issue went away. Maybe there are guys who can piss with an erection, but I’m not one of them. Anyway, I was thoroughly distracted.

I pushed her down and pushed into her in one movement. Sa’afia raised her legs and wrapped them round my waist. I thought we might be delicate with each other this time since it expressed some things I felt, and I thought she might like the change from our earlier sex. But when I paused for a second, buried deep in her, she made that grunting noise she’d made when I’d fucked her over her chair. She wasn’t looking for gentle. So we weren’t.

Later I padded down the corridor to the second door to the right in the corridor. I saw my face in the bathroom mirror. My hair was soaked with sweat, but try as I might I couldn’t make myself look haggard. For no good reason I laughed at myself, loud enough for Sa’afia to hear. She yelled, “Yo, come back to bed now, palagi!”

I’d realised that I’d have to smack her for that. And then I’d have to fuck her. But I obeyed. A bed with Sa’afia in it was a good place to be. It was odd, opening the door again, with Sa’afia in the darkness,having pushed the sheets off to show that she knew that a bed with her in it was the best place to be. I was happy.

We cuddled under the covers. Eventually Sa’afia turned her back and jammed her ass tight against me. My cock wet with her juices, her bottom hot with my … cruelty. But I was spent.

I reached around her and took a breast in my hand. Sometimes I squeezed.

I heard a sound from the pillow under her head, a tiny sound at the edge of my hearing. I leaned over. She was smiling. I kissed her ear and her jaw line, and dropped back, resting my head on the same pillow. I breathed air and strands of black hair. Her body smelled of cocoanut oil and spices, and her cunt smelled of sex. And of me. Her hair smelled of apple-scented shampoo.

Sa’afia pressed her ass against me again, and made lazy fucking movements. She chuckled. “Good night,” I said.

Sa’afia bent over the back of her wicker armchair. She kept a blanket thrown over it so it was comfortable for her sit at, beside her window. I’d dropped that on the floor before pushing her over the back, hand on the back of her neck till her head pressed on the chair cushion. I wanted the wicker weaving to mark her belly while I fucked her.

I’d joined her and we’d fucked with urgency. The chair had moved across the room and only stopped once its front feet were pressed against the wall. Sa’afia’s sides ran with sweat. Most of the sweat was mine.

Despite the furious tension in our bodies Sa’afia’s hands hung limply on either side of the chair. After a period of bdsm-ish intensity I usually want the sex to bring my partner and me closer to equality. Joined, we start to move from dominant and submissive to something gentler. The submissive may regain rights – to speak, for example – that I might have been taken away during the session.

This was different. I’d felt that Sa’afia didn’t want to leave her new place yet. She was enjoying submission, and her awareness of herself, doing things that only submissives do. So I’d told her that she was to keep the top of her head in the pillow, and to let her hands hang down. If I saw her move her head or her hands, I’d said, I’d be disappointed in her. By that stage in her surrender that was a harsher threat than any physical punishment I could promise.

But comfort wasn’t the point

But the muscles of her spread thighs were taut, and her welted ass blazed heat back at me. She’d been breathing hard, like an exhausted runner, but now here were deeper noises, grunts from inside her. I hadn’t heard those sounds before. They were sex, desperation and a kind of determination.

Sa’afia was about to come. It’s a moment I like. It’s the moment that I can recall, in living detail.

I had lain back, and, with her wrists and ankles free, Sa’afia unbound, she’d licked and sucked at my cock. Sa’afia had begun in a playful mood. She knew she was good at cock-sucking. She’d thought I had nothing to show her, and she could show me things that she knew.

But the emotion wasn’t quite right. So I’d done something I’d never do in non-bdsm sex: I grabbed a handful of her hair and pushed her head down onto my cock, thrusting deep into her throat until I knew she’d be uncomfortable, and held her down until she gagged. Bad sex manners for men.

Then I’d let her part-way up, and, looking her in the eyes, picked up the rod. I’d reached down and given her four new, vertical, stripes on her bottom. She’d gasped, cock still in her mouth, as each one landed. The strokes were unfairly hard.

I’d touched her face with the rod when I’d finished, so she could see that I was going to keep it in my hand while she served me. I’d promised that she’d get the same again each time she gagged. My voice growled at the back of my throat. But if she let my cock slide out of her mouth, I’d added, I’d give her a full dozen. They’d be hard.

Sa’afia had nodded solemnly, with just the head of my cock in her mouth, and dropped her head to return to her task. I stopped pushing her head down, but twisted the handful of her hair as a compensation.

She returned to her task, and I said, “Ah.” Her mouth around my cock was soft, wet paradise, of course, but I also felt an oddly physical satisfaction, which somehow seemed to be located in my stomach muscles, that I’d brought us back to our respective places.

Sa’afia was still doing something she was skilled at, and she was proud of her skill. But though she knew what to do, she was no longer in a familiar place. She glanced up at me and our eyes met. That’s the memory.

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